Chain Letter

by Christopher Pike

Alison dressed for the date with care, several times in fact, hampered by a lack of information on what Tony had planned. She donned an expensive flowered dress, squeezed into a pair of tight jeans, finally settling on what seemed a compromise, a green plaid skirt and a light turtlenecked sweater. She worked on her makeup for an hour and discovered when she was cover girl perfect that she was allergic to an ingredient in a previously untried blush—she couldn’t stop sneezing. She was washing it all off when she saw Tony’s Ford Tempo cruising up her deserted block. She was lucky to get on her lipstick.

  Tony charmed her mother and reassured her father, and still Alison was glad when they were out of the house and seated in his car. He was wearing dress slacks but an undistinguished short sleeved shirt, and she decided their attire was fairly matched. The upholstery had a fresh new smell.

  “Is this car yours?” she asked.

  He smiled. “That’s right, I had this Tempo when we went to the mall. It actually belongs to my dad. My car looks like Kipp’s did after it hit the wall.”

  She liked how he was not out to impress her with what neat wheels he drove, like so many other guys. When he had taken her out to lunch, she had been amazed to discover he was not even remotely like she had imagined. Where had her suave iron-nerved athlete gone? She didn’t know and she didn’t care. He was very much the dreamer. One revelation had summed up the afternoon. He had told her he hated football.

  He started the car. “What would you like to do?”

  Make out, Alison thought. “I’m hungry, that is, if you’re hungry . . . would you like to eat?”

  “Sure. I know a joint that serves Weight Watchers french fries.”

  She laughed. “My diet, oh yeah. I’m over that. Right now, I could eat a cow. That is, if we can find a restaurant around here. You know, Tony, I could have met you back in a normal section of town. You didn’t have to drive all the way out here.”

  They rolled forward, Tony studying the empty houses, the wide blank windows, the unstained concrete driveways, the deserted sidewalks. “Are you still the only people in this tract?”

  “Nobody here but us chickens. It looks like it’s going to stay that way for a while. I went for a walk around sunset yesterday and ran into one of the brokers who has been showing the houses. Before, he’d told me that difficulties with a group-financing package were slowing buyers from moving in. But now it seems the developers are having major cash-flow problems. The contractors haven’t all been paid and there’re lawsuits and liens and bad blood and I can have my choice of over two hundred different bedrooms!” She made the joke to soften the edge that had automatically begun to creep into her voice. At first the empty area had spooked her, the way her steps echoed like pursuing footfalls, how her words called back to her as they rebounded off the silent walls. But now the lack of humanity was outright weighing on her soul. More and more, she felt she was being watched.

  Still, she continued her twilight walks. The fright drew as well as repelled her. It was as if she were searching for something she intuitively felt she needed to find to be safe.

  “Do they have a guard to protect against vandalism?”

  Alison nodded. “Harry, yeah. He drives around in this tiny security cart. He’s always drunk. The Hell’s Angels could show up in force and he probably wouldn’t notice them.”

  “I’ll be careful not to run him over,” Tony said, picking up speed, wrapping through the maze to the street that led to the freeway a few miles south. “And don’t worry about me having to come out this way. I enjoy driving.” He grinned. “Especially when I can see where I’m going.”

  It was the only reference made to the incident all night. They both deserved a break.

  · · ·

  They drove forever and ended up in a restaurant not far from Grant High. Tony explained that, since he was such a local hero, the meals would be on the house. It was a joke she believed while she was ordering her lobster. But he had New York steak so she didn’t feel so bad, and she really was starving. She’d read that love—or maybe it had been lust—stimulated the appetite. They planned to go to a movie after dinner but they talked so long over dessert that they missed the last show. They ended up flying a kite in the park across from the school. Alison had never flown a kite at night. You couldn’t see the silly thing and knew it was up there somewhere only by the tug on the string. When they were done, Tony simply let it go.

  The evening went by in a flash. On the drive home, Alison began to worry what was going to happen. She had no intention of giving up her virginity on the first date—she would put up a fair fight, so she told herself—but she was kind of hoping to put some tarnish on her good girl image. With Tony, knowing he had gone out with Amazon Joan, she wasn’t sure what to expect. He had in fact talked about Joan over dinner. He had said dating Joan was more like being in a war than being in a relationship, and he was, “filing for conscientious objector status,” which sounded encouraging to her.

  He parked directly in front of her house and she was disappointed. Necking would have been much simpler around the block. They certainly wouldn’t have had to rent a motel room. He turned off the ignition and looked at her for a long time. The streetlights weren’t working and she couldn’t read his expression. “I had a great time,” he said finally.

  “I bet you say that to all your girls.” She smiled, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking. The move only caused her arms to start shaking.

  “You’re right,” he said. He reached over and pulled her toward him. He had his arm around her and had kissed her once before she knew what had happened. Just her luck, her first important kiss and she had missed it. His lips, however, were still only inches away and she prepped her brain to make a permanent record of all the sensations to come. “What was your name, anyway?” he asked.

  “Ralph,” she whispered. She could see his eyes—that was all. His hand had slipped down her right side. It kind of tickled but she didn’t want to laugh and spoil the mood.

  “You know,” he said, running his other hand through her curls, “you have incredibly beautiful hair for a Ralph.”

  “My middle name is Susie.” And that was the honest truth. She wanted him to kiss her again, preferably soon. Her parents would have heard the car pull up. Their bedroom was on the opposite side of the house but her dad might, if she didn’t come inside shortly, come to the front door. But Tony seemed content to play with Ralph’s hair. “I had a great time, too . . . ahh . . . what was your name?”

  “Call me Tony.”

  “Tony. Tony?”

  “Yeah?”

  She kissed him. It was a hard deep one and it lasted a while and as the seconds turned into minutes, she felt a pleasant falling sensation, like she was a warm tropical cloud and another part of her was rain that she was releasing to earth. Perhaps she was being overly romantic. She decided it was a distinct possibility when she slipped off the seat and bumped her head on the dashboard, her legs bunching around the stick shift. So much for her falling rain. Her skirt ran up her legs practically to her hips and if her dad decided to check on them now, her relationship with Tony would be history.

  “You have nice legs,” he observed, offering his hand. She made it back into her seat without major difficulty.

  “Thank you.”

  “Are we in danger here?”

  She laughed softly. “It depends on what you’re afraid of.” He had a hand resting on her bare knee and the other one was tracing erotic circles inside her ear and this was not her imagination; his touch was a pure delight. “If it’s of my dad, yes.”

  “Dads don’t frighten me. I’m bigger than most of them.”

  “What does frighten you?” she asked absently, leaning back, closing her eyes, his hand moving from her leg to her chin. She waited for a kiss that never came.

  “You. It’s easy to be with you, too easy, maybe.” He traced her lower lip lightly, sending a nice shiver to the base of her spine, then withdrew both of his hands and sat
back. She opened her eyes, feeling a pang. He was staring up the road.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing.”

  This uncomfortable moment wasn’t supposed to be in the evening’s script. He was hers tonight, wasn’t he? “Joan?” she mumbled, feeling sore.

  “No.”

  “Tony, you can tell me.”

  “No,” he said, raising his voice. He added quietly, “It isn’t another girl.”

  Now wait a second, she thought. Tony wasn’t . . . his calling her Ralph . . . he couldn’t be . . . what the hell was going on here? “Is it Ralph?”

  That caught him off guard and she was infinitely relieved to see him smile and shake his head. “No, I’m old-fashioned. I still think girls are prettier than boys.”

  “Then what is it? Can’t you tell me?”

  He did not answer right away. His attention seemed drawn far off, or perhaps he was so closely considering her question that he had forgotten her. The effect was the same and she no longer felt his closeness. “It’s not my place to talk about it,” he said finally. “I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.” He touched the keys. “I should be getting home.”

  “Tony?” she pleaded softly, putting her hand on his shoulder. This was no way to say good-bye. Left this way, up in the air, she might not be able to get to sleep tonight. He wouldn’t look at her.

  “Sweet dreams, Alison. I really like you.”

  “But can’t we go out together again?” she asked, dying a bit waiting for his answer. He glanced up the road, at the rows of empty houses, and frowned.

  “That might not depend on you or me,” he said.

  Chapter Seven

  Neil’s “small token of obedience” was demanded and carried out without injury or insult to anyone. The Caretaker wanted him to get sick in class. The group debated whether it was actually necessary for him to vomit on somebody—“How gross!” Brenda had remarked—before deciding a fainting spell would probably be sufficient. Neil chose Algebra II to throw the fit. This was ironic—the math teacher was none other than Coach Sager, whose imaginary seduction they had been listening to when they had hit the man. Neil’s selection, however, had been logically arrived at. His algebra class was immediately prior to lunch, just when a diabetic would be prone to trouble with his blood sugar level. Alison did not see the faked collapse but Tony was there and told her about it afterward.

  “I knew it was coming and he still scared me. Neil should be in one of your plays; he’s an incredible actor. He started by swaying in his chair, trying to catch a few people’s attention that something was not right. But you know the kids at our school—they went right on minding their own business. Then he turned white—how, I have no idea. Still, no one spoke up and Sager went right on lecturing about X, Y, and Z. Finally, Neil just went ahead and did it. He groaned loudly and pitched forward onto the desk, rolling to the floor. The back of his head hit the tiles with a loud thud. You should have seen Sager; he reacted as if Neil had caught fire. He ripped off his sweater and draped it over Neil’s body and started fanning him with an algebra book. Coach was about to try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation when I stepped in, explaining about the diabetes. Someone ran for orange juice and as soon as we put it to Neil’s lips, he opened his eyes and smiled. He hadn’t even drunk any of it! The whole thing was pretty funny in a way. That is, until his mother showed up. I was sitting with him in the nurse’s station when she came in. She was very upset. You would have thought her son had died. She started crying and shaking, and you could see how much this bothered Neil. He was furious with himself. I guess, one way or the other, the Caretaker is letting none of us off easy.”

  Joan’s command sounded inoffensive enough: Come School Dressed Bozo Clown. Alison wouldn’t have minded that order. She might even have enjoyed it. But to punk, tough Joan, used to wearing leather and metal, it cut to the core of her image. “No way,” she swore. “Let that bastard try what he wants.”

  That had been last week. But something had happened between then and now that worried Joan. She wanted a meeting of all seven of them. Fran’s parents both worked, so they decided to gather at her house on a Wednesday afternoon after Tony’s track practice. It was to be the first time since the accident that they were all in the same spot at the same time.

  · · ·

  “Would anyone like some homemade chocolate chip cookies?” Fran asked, bustling about the kitchen table—the same table where they had opened the Caretaker’s original letter—like the typically overly anxious hostess. “How about you, Neil?” she asked, reaching for a winning smile. “You don’t have to worry about your weight.”

  Neil looked up, rubbing his eyes. He had been resting his head in his arms. He smiled. “Homemade? Sounds wonderful.”

  “But all that sugar . . . ” Tony began.

  “One or two won’t hurt,” Neil said.

  Fran brought out a warm plate of three dozen cookies and a half-gallon carton of milk. Alison helped herself—she always craved sweets when she was worried. Why had Tony chosen to sit next to Joan?

  “We should get together like this more often,” Kipp remarked, his mouth full.

  “We always do have such an exciting time,” Joan said sarcastically.

  “I see you got a new car, Kipp,” Alison said. He had driven up in a red Ford, a later model. “The Caretaker didn’t do bad by you, after all.”

  Tony and Neil exchanged glances. Alison wondered what she was missing. Unconcerned, Kipp continued to dunk his cookies, muttering, “The old one had sentimental value.”

  Alison noticed Neil playing with a ring, twisting the band on his middle finger as if he were winding it up. The fit was poor, loose. She had never seen him wearing it before. She was fond of jewelry. “Neil, can I try on your ring?”

  He looked pleased. “I doubt it will fit you,” he said, handing it over.

  “But it does.” Her hands were not nearly as bony as his, and the fit was snug. The stone was an emerald—an expensive one, she knew her gems—cut in a sharp triangle, mounted in gold. “Has this been in your family?” she asked.

  Neil nodded. “How did you know?”

  “The green matches your eyes.” She gave it back. “It’s beautiful.”

  “Let’s cut out the small talk,” Brenda said. “Remember, I’m grounded. I’ve got to get back before my mom discovers I’m gone. Why did you want this meeting, Joan? You don’t look like anything has fallen on you.”

  “The suggestion was mine as much as Joan’s,” Tony interjected. “We should have been gathering and working together since this started, instead of purposely avoiding each other.”

  “Does Joan need help with her clown outfit?” Kipp asked.

  “Tell them what happened,” Tony said.

  Joan put down her cookie and beer—yes, she had wanted beer with her cookies—and coolly eyed everyone at the table. “Let me say up front that I don’t think what happened to me was funny. If any of you laugh when I tell you, especially you, Kipp, I’ll put this plate of cookies in your face.” That said, Joan lowered her voice and said, “Last night I went to bed about twelve, my usual time. My folks were home but they were bombed from a police ball they’d gone to earlier. A gunshot couldn’t have woken them. They didn’t hear what happened and they still don’t know about it.

  “I must have been in bed about half an hour—I wasn’t asleep yet—when my window just exploded. The glass sprayed all over my whole bed. I had it on my pillow and in my hair and, when I sat up, I could feel it cutting my arms.” Joan rolled up her right sleeve and it was indeed badly scratched. “But I didn’t care. I thought, if that’s the worst that damn Caretaker can do to me, I have nothing to worry about. I would have jumped to the window right away to see if there was anyone there, but I was in my bare feet and I knew there must be glass all over the floor. So I decided to first get to the light switch, which is by the door opposite the window. I carefully slipped out of the sheets and was tiptoeing across the
floor, when I feel this”—she made a face—“this thing crawl up my leg. I tell you, I forgot all about the glass. I pounced on that light switch quick. Then . . . I saw what was there.” Joan stopped, taking a swig of beer.

  “Please continue,” Kipp said. “The suspense is killing me.”

  Joan glared at him. “There were cockroaches all over the room! They were in my bed, crawling through my clothes, running over my desk, and trying to get up my legs.” She chewed on her lower lip, and this time, it wasn’t because she was bad. “If I live till I’m thirty, I’ll never get over feeling as nauseated as I did then.”

  “And as scared?” Alison asked.

  Joan nodded faintly. “Yeah, and as scared. I was scared.” She took a deep breath. “It took me half the night to kill those buggers, if I even got them all. I used my old man’s CO-2 fire extinguisher. Hell help us if the house catches fire next.”

  The group silently considered the Caretaker’s latest ploy. Finally, Tony asked, “Are you particularly afraid of cockroaches?”

  “I hate all bugs,” Joan said. “Doesn’t everybody?”

  “I’m sure none of us here like insects,” Tony said. “But disliking and being afraid of are two different things. My point is, the Caretaker appears to have hit you where you’re weak.” He had to quickly raise his hand to prevent Joan from defending her weakness. “We all have our secret phobias—don’t be embarrassed. Now I know you’re afraid of bugs because of what you said just now. But how did the Caretaker know this?”

  The question brought no ready answer. While they racked their brains, Fran’s cookies enjoyed another wave of interest. Only Neil abstained, toying with his milk, looking exhausted. But it was he who spoke next.

  “The Caretaker must know Joan,” he said. “The Caretaker must be one of us.”

  More silence, everyone looking at everyone else, everyone looking equally guilty.

  “There is a pattern, of sorts here,” Kipp said with some reluctance. “Fran was proud of Teddy, I was proud of my Ford. More than anything, Brenda wanted to do well in her play. And Neil hates how Tony and I are always hassling him about how sickly he looks. This last ad maintains this pattern. Joan—and please don’t hit me—loves her mean street girl image. Dressing like Bozo the Clown wouldn’t exactly reinforce that image.”